Archive for January, 2012

Peter Pan, must you be such a vaporous wisp? You come to my window, imploring me to join you, to come away to Neverland, and each time, I, your Wendy, awaits for you at my window, to come, lead me away to wonderment! But you can not keep me there, your heart is not enough the strong hold to keep me from wanting!

Fairy tales that Wendy wishes to let go of, wanting, wishing from some intangible gift aside from the flight of a kiss! But to leave Neverland is a most frightening prospect, for that means to grow up, face down fears and accept. Here in Neverland, childish wishes and dreams do come true, remain as such!! And leaving means tremendous heart ache, for heart ache is not a part of this wonderous world where one remains young, untouched by the sadness of being an adult. Such a marvelous ideal!

What Wendy would ever wish to leave Peter, and such magic, perhaps, this is why such a place ever came to be. A place where those who have been struck down look up in a haze of tears, blinking, thinking it is Tink, there to carry one away from the pain of the here, and take you there, to a sweeter place, despite pirates, sinister seething men with hooks for hands, crocodiles with ticking bellies, it was still far more majestic than earthly reality.

Oh please, come find me again, take me there, even if just for a moment! Allow this Wendy to see it all sparkle in newness, with child like wonderment, and be free of all the pains of those on the other side of the window pane. Where no one grows up, never dies, and hearts are pure in conviction! To be with her lost boys again, if only for one singular sunny afternoon, to play, to be free of worry and heartache, that would be grande!!

I will wait for you to come, if for only one last glimpse, so that I may bank it deep within my heart, to keep me safe and warm. I am not afraid!! I do believe in fairies and flight, even if for just one more night!!

Craving the majestic, swelling curves of Her Highness, The Open Highway, she slammed her foot, no cause to pause, flying free past the the ghosts, post rain. Headlights catching glimpses of cars teeming with sheeple, her upper lip curling into the all to familiar sneer she wore.

This was far better than the slow, dark, winding roads she had crawled over earlier, kinda places where if a gal weren’t careful, she might find herself in the drink, and we ain’t talkin whiskey here!! Nah, this was were she needed to be, the shimmy of the steering wheel told her all she needed to know about her speed. Drive all night, and hope that the slumber of the angels will take you from sun up to sun down. She chose to trade the 4 walls for 4 tires, waiting to see if she would ever grow weary with this maddening wandering.

At this late hour, drowning in song, what she was listening to wasn’t so much a lullaby as it was a slow, smokey serenade, to be served with the sultry pour of whiskey. She gulped back the shot of a hot tear and lit a smoke, trying not to think of him. Sure, she could’ve stayed put, but hanging tight just wasn’t her scene. If this were a story, she would be the Wendy to his Peter Pan. Both lost, both with different fears, though hers allowed her fly, back in her days of more promising youth, his kept him grounded in hurt and hiding all his years. She always tried to steer clear of boys wearing the masks of men, damned cowards!!! So many thought it that which kept her high tailin it across state lines. Some thought her restlesness was a symptom of being the Mariners Daughter, a curse in so many ways. Not to sway amongst the high seas, but to surf the asphalt ocean, careening from juke joint, to roadside dive and never far enough, as the dead always find ya, can’t out run those fuckers!!

She listened to the sweet, broken, meloncholy voice singing above the swell of the orchestral strings. Smoke tendrils twirling towards the far reaches of the window screen. The lamp lights all twinkling illumination from the remnants of the evenings pale rain.

A jostled, stained bottle of pinot noir carelessly placed upon the window sill, no desire to restle with the formality of glassware. Her weary frame leaning towards the slumber of the angels.